


we are the lovesick girls (we were born to be alone)

by n_j_m00



Category: BLACKPINK (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Body Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, LGBTQ Themes, Loss, Song references, Tragic Romance, Trans Character, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_j_m00/pseuds/n_j_m00
Summary: the story of four girls and their loss-inspired by scenes in the "lovesick girls" mv
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	we are the lovesick girls (we were born to be alone)

**Author's Note:**

> cis-het relationships? lmao, don't know her
> 
> 80% inspiration - Lovesick Girls by Blackpink  
> 15% inspiration - Heather by Conan Gray  
> 5% inspiration - Hoodie by Hey Violet

  1. Jennie



She sat stone-faced in the wreckage of her car, wondering whether this entire fucked up situation was some kind of metaphor for her life. Smoke rose from the hood in gyrating columns and billowed around her, thick and asphyxiating, as she looked up heavenwards at the laughing deities above her.

And to think just an hour ago, she was hoping to make him the happiest man in the world with a get-away and a proposal. A bitter laugh escaped her lips and she raked a bloody hand through her mussed up hair.

_She was a goddamn idiot._

The laughter broke into a strangled half-sob, half-scoff as she flung the velvet box containing the damned ring into oblivion.

_Fuck that, fuck him, fuck everything._

When she gifted him the quartz ring, she had expected a yes or no. Not a tearful confession of how he had gone behind her back, walking into bars, walking back out on the arm of different strangers—man or woman, it didn't matter—and tumbling into bed with them. All because _he was lonely, she was gone for too long, she didn't make time for him, he thought she didn't love him—_

She wanted an explanation, not some half-assed excuse. And that was what she had shrieked at him through a haze of white-hot anger and hurt constricting her throat and blurring her sight.

"GET OUT!" she had yelled, emptying her glove box and throwing the box of strawberry mints she always kept in stock for him and the numerous knick-knacks he had left behind over the years. "Get out of my car, get out of my house, get out of my _fucking life_ , you sick motherfucker!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he had whispered through an onslaught of tears.

Normally the sight of his rheumy hazel eyes brimming with tears and trembling lips would calm her down and she would then forget all about how and why she was angry with such a beautiful human. But now, his tears only fuelled her rage and she hated it; hated his eyes that once looked at her and only her; hated his lips that smiled so brightly for her; hated his entire being with every fibre of hers.

She brought her fist down on the dashboard with a deafening thud that elicited a flinch from the man. "Why wasn't I enough for you?" she yelled over the pounding of blood in her ears. "I loved you, I trusted you, I gave you all of me, I gave up _everything_ for you and that wasn't enough!?"

His breathing grew more and more ragged as he covered his mouth with one hand to muffle his sobs.

"What the fuck did you want from me all along? What was I missing? Was there a problem with me or was it all you?" Her gravelly voice which had grown hoarse from screaming dropped into a deathly rasp as her hair draped over her shoulder, hiding her face like a curtain. When she looked up at him, her expressive face was as blank as slate and her onyx eyes were stony and devoid of the warmth he had always associated her with.

He gulped down the next waves of sobs, never realising the coldness that existed within her until he was on the receiving end of it. He had gotten too used to the flames of the hearth, always expecting them to be eternal and everlasting.

As they all say, he never knew what he had until it was gone.

"Even if I was perfect, you still won't be satisfied, will you?" she spoke again, the flinty edge in her even voice was unmistakable.

She fell back against the cushioned headrest of her car seat, her hands were clenched tightly around the steering wheel and the muscles in her jaws were as taut as a drawn bowstring. She laughed, low and mocking and _cruel_ , before turning to face him with a smile dripping with venom and he reeled back, still hunched over and quivering.

"If I had known you were such a greedy unfaithful slut spreading himself open for everyone and their mother, I would have never given you a second of my time," she drawled—every syllable was spoken scathingly—and regarded him with a disgusted sneer crossing her face. "But look at where I am now, I gave you _seven years_ of my life."

He wished she would wrap her hands around his throat and _squeeze_ , dig her nails into his hair and _pull_ , grab him by the collars and _scream_. Because if she did, he would know she was more hurt and mad above anything else but right now, she was simply repulsed, realising that he had never been worth her time, her attention, her efforts and god, it really stung.

"Please, I--" he began, wiping away the tear-tracks on his cheeks with the back of his sleeves. He was harshly interjected by the sharp clicking sound of the car door beside him unlocking.

She didn't look at him as she said, "Get out."

"Wait--"

"I'll have your things packed and placed outside of my house by the time you get back. You can call one of your sugar daddies to pick you up." She flicked her hair out of her face and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. "I'm done here."

"Give me another--"

"Finish that sentence and I'll backhand the fuck out of you," she snapped, her control slipping and her lips torquing into a feral snarl. "Get out of my car before I put you back in your place, fucking maggot."

With his head lowered, he conceded and took off his seatbelt, gathering his belongings in his arms. Stepping out of the vehicle, he turned back to give her one last look—yearning and imploring all the same.

"I still love you."

She did not deign him with a response, refusing to look at him as she stared resolutely ahead.

The moment he closed the door behind him, she revved the engine and sped off into the night.

In her hurry to get away from him; from the beautiful-turned-ugly memories of their shared past; from the events of the past hour, she had inevitably crashed.

She could almost compare the exhilaration of driving at breakneck speed to the past seven idyllic years with him and the rude awakening from her fantasy with the collision.

The cold, hard reality had struck her at full-force and she was left bleeding, broken and picking up whatever pieces she could salvage by the end of it.

She laughed through her pain, her face stained with silver and crimson, with tears and blood. Surrounded by shards of metal and glass.

This was _definitely_ a metaphor for her life.

  1. Rosé



There were memories she treasured, there were memories she wanted to bury. And then there were the ones that were both.

In the middle of the night when her maelstrom of thoughts came to a standstill and her mind dredged up old moments from the darkest recesses of her mind, that was when she remembered everything about him.

From their first meeting to their last, from the way he looked in the backdrop of the sun to him under her in her sheets with his hair splayed around him like a halo.

The meeting of two worlds went something like this.

The girl had walked into a room on a weekday afternoon, humming loudly and tapping her drumsticks against the lockers as she passed by them, oblivious to the heated glares she was getting for causing such a ruckus. Doing a little twirl when she reached her destination, she stopped outside the corridor on the right, unwittingly mixing up left and right.

"Some...BODY ONCE TOLD ME THE WORLD IS GOING TO ROLL ME!" she sang in an obnoxiously nasally voice to imitate the original singer as she kicked the slightly ajar door open, startling the only occupant of the room who dropped their palette.

The girl then stopped in her tracks upon noticing the explosion of colours permeating the room and dyeing everything a kaleidoscope of colours.

There was a wall of graffiti in her line of vision.

"Wow, who painted this? This is so hecking cool," she breathed, awestruck, her hold on her drumsticks slackening as she admired the artwork.

The splatters of vibrant paint; the droplets of paint transitioning into rivulets; the hazardous mess of rough brush strokes; the scattered large handprints—the seemingly random art had coalesced into a singular masterpiece that belied the artist's turmoil and god, it was absolutely _stunning_.

Her wide-eyed gaze drifted to the withdrawn figure in the corner of the room who was staring up at her with an open-mouthed expression. She took in the boy's effeminate features, his mussed hair falling into his eyes, his distressed pair of jeans, the paintbrush tucked behind his ear and the streak of royal blue spanning from his cheekbone to his mouth.

Ah, he was definitely an art major and the brains behind this.

He was kind of familiar too? The girl tilted her head to the side, nonplussed, sifting through her memories for his face.

The boy clamped his lips shut, regaining his composure after being shocked into dropping his things when someone barged in without any warning.

"Sorry about that." She grinned, sheepish, and shouldered the strap of her guitar case. "I thought this was the music room."

In response, the boy nodded in understanding, eyes trained on the ground and shifting his weight from side to side uneasily

The girl raised a brow at his painfully shy demeanour and softened her smile, hoping she looked more approachable. "Are you new here or something? I know most of the art majors. What's your name?"

The boy blinked in surprise before fidgeting some more. "Er, my name is Song Minjae, I'm not new here but I don't think you have heard of me before."

"I mean, you're right, I don't recognise that name and like I said, I know practically everyone." The girl scratched her cheek pensively. "You sure you aren't a transfer student?"

"I'm not," the boy said quietly. "I think you’d know me by the name Song Minji instead."

The girl snapped her fingers, her grin widening. "Ah, yes, Minmin! I’ve seen her from time to time and we talked at a sorority party like once?" Her brain then caught up with her mouth and she paused, her train of thoughts screeching to a halt. "Wait, what. You said--"  
  


Minjae cracked a weak smile, looking unsure of himself. "I transitioned over the holidays. In fact, you were the one who encouraged me to do that after my drunk ass cried on you at that party."

The conversation came to a brief lull as the girl reviewed her memories of that party.

"Ohhhh, I remember that," the girl said, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’, making her look comically like a goldfish. Her lips then split into a radiant grin as she wolf-whistled, appraising him with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle to make him laugh. It worked. "Damn, talk about a glow-up! You were already cute before but now you’re so handsome, I’m glad that things worked out for you! You look happier."

The boy brightened up visibly, his cheeks dimpling and his mocha-brown eyes lighting up along with the seraphic smile growing on his lips.

"Thank you, you really helped me that day," he said, still bashful but considerably more at ease than before. He then gestured to the guitar case she was carrying. "You play the guitar too? I thought you were a drummer."

"Eh, I’m still learning, I’m way better with the drums obviously."

"I know how to play the guitar, I can teach you," the boy offered a tad tentatively.

The girl gasped in delight before nodding her head in emphatic agreement. "Holy shit, yes, I’d love that! Can we start soon?"

The boy set aside his palette and art materials. "We can start now if you want?"

That was the start of something simple yet beautiful.

The music room became their place of solace where they would create music and art, share secrets and worries with each other or just enjoy their time together in companionable silence.

She would never trade those halcyon days for anything else. Their meetings were something to look forward to in her monotone routine for he was her reprieve when even music couldn't fill up the hollow spaces of silence. And likewise, he found her to be home in a person.

To him, she was a riot of colours in a world of sepia and to her, he was the sole muse in a world of silence.

It was them against the muted, grey-scale world. And yet, he left her to face it alone. Their story had ended too soon and the world around her grew silent once more when her muse disappeared in a sea of red.

On days when the cavity in her chest in the shape of him grew too large to ignore, she would either strum away on her guitar—playing the familiar melodies he taught her—or drown herself in colours—painting away, experimenting with hues and trying to bring back the light, that he had taken along with him when he left, into her life.

When the static in her mind grew too loud, she would tear down mural by mural—ruining their beauty with a quick toss of black paint—and rip up musical scores, knowing that any kind of music she would create would never measure up to the ones before.

Destroying her guitar was out of the option. She did it once and the next day, she bought another one and played on it for hours until her fingers bled and she finally registered the pain.

She used to love bubble baths too—they were therapeutic after a long day of work—but she stuck to a quick shower nowadays.

She had found her muse in a tub that day.

The sight was branded into the back of her lids and etched into her memory. Even with her eyes closed, she could still see the rivers of scarlet seeping out of torn skin and tainting the surrounding waters.

To his very last breath, he had hated his body so much he had shredded it apart—using his body as a canvas, a knife as his brush and blood as paint.

That was his final masterpiece. He had become art itself.

She wondered if his bathroom was still dyed red to this day.

  1. Lisa



When you look at someone through rose-tinted glasses, all the red flags just look like flags.

If she had known that saying would apply to her one day, she would have listened to her mother's warnings since day one.

She had crossed paths with her in an alley that day. She herself was dressed in her prim and proper school uniform when she stumbled upon a gorgeous brunette propped up against the wall of the backstreet in a casual stance, exuding easy confidence whilst holding up a cigarette stick in between supple fingers to her puckered lips.

There were aureate flecks in her eyes, indigo bruises on her skin and garnet pigment on her lips and just like that, the other was enchanted.

”You know that shit is going to kill you one day, right?” Those were the first words she had spoken to the brunette who released a puff of smoke after glancing at her. It swirled upwards into the sky like an opalescent whirligig.

“We all gotta die one way or another. Lung cancer is just one way to go.” She then sucked in another breath, meeting her eyes with a crook of her lips. “Who are you to nag me like a concerned girlfriend anyway?”

“If I was actually your girlfriend, will I get to do that then?” the other girl blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

The brunette stared at her, the air between them charged with something unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

“You--” The brunette tossed her head back and laughed, her voluminous tresses of mocha and gold flowing down her back. She then levelled her with a gimlet-eyed look as her tongue darted out to wet her ruby-stained lips. “You know what, I’ll take you up on that offer, sweetheart.”

That same blustery morning, she found herself whisked away from the heart of the city to the countryside on the back of a motorcycle, holding onto a daydream she had met ten minutes ago. They had many more clandestine meetings like this. All of them unbeknownst to her family and friends. It was their dirty secret—no many how many times the girl claimed it wasn’t.

"What will your parents say knowing that you're here with me?" 

It was the second month since they had met each other and she was currently pressed up to the brunette against her parked motorcycle. They were star-gazing in a deserted parking lot on a windy autumn night with plumes of cigarette smoke enshrouding them and a perpetual chill clinging to their clothes.

Kohl-lined chatoyant eyes were alight with amusement as the brunette watched the other girl inhale sharply—her senses overwhelmed by the brunette's citrusy perfume, the musk of leather and the cloying scent of nicotine.

Lips smeared with gloss traced the shell of her ear sensually, eliciting a shiver from the girl.

"Nothing," the girl replied breathily, arching into the brunette's touch. The brunette hummed against the skin below her ear, sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her.

"And why's that?"

"They don't know and they won't know."

A throaty chuckle slipped past the brunette's lips as her hand darted lower to wind around the other girl's slim waist. "Right, because I told you to keep quiet about it, didn't I?"

The girl nodded her head, peering up at the brunette through long lashes. Deciding to indulge her, the brunette gave in and let their lips meet for a brief second—they slotted together with practised ease—before pulling away slightly. They were only a hair's breadth away from each other and the girl could feel the lingering sear that the brunette's lips had left behind on hers—a brand claiming her. The residual taste of nicotine and ash mingled with the tart sweetness of her lemon-flavoured gloss—the stark contrast between the two flavours made the kiss all-the-more intoxicating.

"Good girl," the brunette muttered, brushing the girl's hair away from her neck so that she could dip down and plant a kiss against her fluttering pulse. "You're always coming back for more, aren't you?" The brunette mouthed against the rapidly warming skin, allowing the girl to hold onto her like a drowning man finding his lifeline.

In a way, she was her only tether to reality.

"What if I have nothing left to give you? Will you still come back?" the brunette continued, pulling away to admire her handiwork and reveling in the flush coating the other's cheeks.

The other girl breathed out slowly, her pupils dilating. "Don't be ridiculous. I have you to come back to, don't I? You're _not_ nothing to me."

The brunette fell silent and the moment lapsed by, the loaded words being carried away by a northward wind and the silence between them stretching on. At long last, the brunette leaned in for another kiss and the other girl obliged without a single protest.

Breaking apart, the girl rested her head on the brunette's shoulder and intertwined their fingers together.

"I'll take whatever you can give me," said the girl, "as long as you're here, I'll come back."

"I guess I'll just have to stay then," the brunette answered lightly, too lightly for her words to hold any meaning, yet the other girl still smiled.

"Is that a promise?"

The brunette gazed at her with a diamond-bright intensity, taking her soul apart and making it whole again with just one look. 

"Yes."

And of course, the girl believed her.

She had to learn that promises were never meant to be kept, they were meant to comfort. And even if that comfort was a lie, the other would keep making as many promises as she had to if that was what it took to make her happy.

So when the brunette left, she took her own promises, her own lies and the other's happiness with her.

At least she could see them now—the flags in all of their sanguine glory.

All along, she had been her choice of addiction, the personified form of nicotine made solely for her. And just like nicotine, she had spread inside of her insidiously until the entirety of her being belonged to her. 

Romanticising toxic love is foolish but it never is to the fools.

  1. Jisoo



Her warm smile grew frayed at the edges just like the hoodie she was currently wearing.

The pure unadulterated joy leaking into his voice coloured it an effervescent yellow when he introduced her to his _boyfriend._

She couldn't even muster up the energy to feel angry when she saw the intruder in their lives wearing his favourite sweaters. The one she thought she would receive someday.

But the thing is, he couldn't even be called an intruder—he was invited by her crush-slash-childhood friend into his life and by extension, hers. He was going to be a permanent fixture in their lives and she was going to have to watch the two of them walk together away from her, out of her reach.

This old hoodie her friend had given her didn't even mean anything to him anymore even though it still meant everything to her. How could it when the one he adored was wearing his favourite sweater?

It was the third of December when she had shown up at her school, bereft of a coat to protect herself from the harsh winter chill. As always, he had swooped in to save the day, divesting himself of his favourite hoodie and passing it to her.

"Do you think we are in a kdrama?" she snorted, vehemently ignoring the surge of warmth coursing through her as she accepted his hoodie.

"If we were, I'll definitely be the cool male protagonist," he replied with a set of finger guns and a wink and she laughed at his antics. "I can be the Park Bogum to your Kim Yoojung."

"They’re not even dating, dumbass, and you're nowhere near as handsome as Park Bogum." She stuck up her nose loftily and averted her gaze to hide her blush. "You're more likely to be the second lead."

He shrugged in response. "The second lead is usually the childhood friend, right? Then it's pretty accurate."

"Exactly, if I was the lead actress, I'd never pick you."

To her surprise, he found her acerbic statement amusing, judging by the knowing glint in his eyes and the smirk playing at his lips. "Don't worry, I'll never be the one to end up with you."

Looking back at his words, it had been so obvious since day one.

After that, she wrote about him like she always did when she didn't know how to deal with her problems and chose to spill her heart in ink. Every line, loop, dot and cross in her writings were imbued with fragments of her—her sorrows, her longing and her disappointment with herself.

It was sad, really. Here she was treating her heartbreak as if it was the end of the world when in reality, it was a cliché; a teenage dilemma and nothing more.

Then again, she had always been this self-absorbed—always putting herself first; always making her problems seem worse than they actually were; always throwing herself in the limelight; always looking for attention; always pretending that the world revolved around her as it did with the lead actress of a drama.

That was who she had always wanted to be—the lead actress. The one who could love freely and be loved fiercely in return. The one who could choose her destined and have them choose her back. The one who would always end up with the person she had fallen for.

The truth was that she was not even the second lead, much less the lead actress. The second lead at least had a chance with the main character, no matter how slim it was. She, on the other hand, had never stood a chance to begin with. In fact, she was never a character in the wild love story. Instead, she was simply viewing it on the other side of a television screen, pining for a love that could never be.

So she wrote and wrote until tears dotted the pages, blended with the ink and blurred the words into indiscernible scrawls. She turned him into metaphors to make him less of a real person and more of an abstract idea, describing him as a hurricane, a drug, a temptress, her universe while immersing herself in the scent of his old hoodie that still smelled like him—petrichor, lavender and something inherently him—despite multiple washes.

> _"I know Hyacinthus—whom Apollo loved so madly—were you in Greek days.”_

She wrote that on the day she was graced with the sight of dappled sunlight bathing him in its warm glow on their walk home from school. It was as if Apollo himself was smiling down on him.

> _“I have those days—the ones where I can’t open my eyes, pull myself out of my bed, get dressed and face the day // the kind of day where I just want to lie in bed, stare at my ceiling and forget that a world exists outside of my room // then I remember—y_ o _u’ll be a part of my day and you’ll be waiting to greet me with a smile no matter what kind of day it’ll be for you // I think that’s how I still manage to get up on those days.”_

She wrote that on the day she could not pull herself out of bed and he had come over with a bag of Chateraise pastries, a cup of Gong Cha bubble tea and a packet of gummy bears.

> _“I grieve over losing a person who’s still alive and I don’t know if that’s worse or not.”_

She wrote that on the day she saw him kiss another on the lips tenderly.

> _“If I sit in the rain, maybe I can drown in something other than my thoughts of you.”_

She wrote that on the day she walked home without him by her side since he had left school in his boyfriend’s car and the sky poured and poured and poured, drenching her until she couldn’t tell her tears apart from the raindrops.

> _“If I go on any longer, I can write a fucking novel about the ache of wanting you.”_

She wrote that down on the day she leafed through her journal and found out that there were only a few blank pages left.

For now, she could only await the day when she would no longer see him as any of those things. One day, she would see him as a boy who simply didn't want her back—nothing more, nothing less.

For now, the hoodie still smelled of him.

For now, she would still write her happy ending that would exist solely in the pages of her book.

**Author's Note:**

> 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬. 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞.


End file.
